The Idiot Magi
by aRegularJo
Summary: Booth and Brennan make huge career sacrifices to protect the other. WIthout discussing it, of course. Title is a play on The Gift of the Magi.
1. Booth

Hey y'all! I'm Jo, new to Bones but old hat around . This story takes place at the end of season 4, pre-Critic but post-Cinderella. The title is a play on "The Gift of the Magi," the Christmas story of a couple who sell their finest possessions to buy gifts for the other. The irony, of course, is that they give the other a gift for the sold item. It's not quite parallel but close. Please read and review--let me know if you feel everyone's in character!

* * *

"Seeley, man! Can't believe I finally got you tied down to lunch," Michael Grayson, an old Rangers buddy of Booth's, said, and broadened his arms for a hug.

Booth leaned down and hugged the man tightly. Michael was in a wheelchair, had been so for the past 10 years. He'd been paralyzed, shot in the spine, in Booth's last year in the Rangers. And though the two of them saw each other a few times a year — Booth had even been a groomsman in Michael's wedding to the beautiful and spunky Cassandra four years ago — it was still weird, seeing his buddy in the chair, knowing that could have been him.

"Yeah, well, you move to my turf, it's polite that I say yes at some point, right?"

"Took you long enough. Session started six weeks ago."

"Yeah, congrats again on the election, man — you're going to be fantastic."

"Thanks, Seel. Was kinda hard to figure out what to do post-_this_," he tapped on the aluminum wheels of his chair, "but I think this is a pretty damn good substitute."

Michael was now a first-term U.S. Rep, serving the fine people of the Michigan 7th. He'd been pestering Seeley for a lunch since the minute all the bunting disappeared post-inauguration but Booth'd been resisting — just would be weird, he knew, and might be seen by his supervisors as being overtly political and manipulative. Michael didn't give a damn though. He'd scheduled a lunch at Monocle, which made Booth's favorite steak, and made his scheduler call Booth twice a day until he agreed. Bones had gotten sick of the 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. regularly scheduled calls and finally insisted that he take it. Booth chuckled at the memory.

"How's Parker?" Michael asked, grinning.

"Pretty damn good, you know — second grade, smart as hell, loves hockey and basketball, doesn't understand girls yet, thank god." He grinned and pulled Parker's latest class photo from his wallet. "Nicky and Cassandra good?"

"Yeah. Nicky still doesn't like the whole weekend-daddy thing, but he's adjusting. They both are," he smiled. "They get out to the house in D.C. every few months, I go home every weekend; it works. Little Spartan, but it works." He similarly drew out a photo and slapped it on the table, Nicky at preschool. The waitress interrupted them briefly, and Seeley ordered a Flatiron while Michael went with the tuna steak. "So what's this I hear about you being a sneaky old bastard and having the highest close rate in the whole FB of I?"

Booth laughed. "You got other friends at the Bureau besides me? I'm a little hurt."

"Seriously, Seel — impressive."

"Seriously, Mikey — who you been talking to?"

He smirked. "Committees, Seeley, committees — what do you think the most junior member of the House Judiciary Subcommittee on Crime, Terrorism, and Homeland Security does?"

Booth couldn't hold back a laugh. "Wait for the second-most-junior person to lose reelection?"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Word on the street is that Deputy Director Myers is going to retire at the end of this year."

Booth had heard the same rumors in the locker room, but wasn't going to put anything by them — yet. And it honestly wouldn't mean anything. "He's a decent one," was all he could finally say.

Michael nodded. "He is. And he needs replaced by another decent one."

"What, you want me to tell you what locker-room talk is saying?"

"Doesn't really matter what the locker room says; this is a nominated position," Michael said coolly.

Booth raised his eyebrows; the last thing he wanted was his friend using _him_ to float some unappealing lawyer bureaucrat in the office.

Michael was nothing if not astute, however, and hurriedly said, "Seeley — don't be so friggin' dense, man. The name I wanna float — and considering how high your damn close rate is, it won't be a problem — is yours."

"Mine?" Booth said skeptically.

"Yes, yours, lunkhead."

"You want me — _me — _to run about half the FBI?"

"Yeah. And I think you'll do a damned amazing job."

"I'm not even an assistant director. I _just_ made Special Agent in Charge. There are about, oh, _five,_ assistant divisional directors who might want this. Not to mention the field agents in charge of the branches."

"The FBI needs an image makeover. Dashing young Catholic single father with a strong ethics who just wants to uphold justice? Those guys are all _old, _their 50s. Not exactly inspiring. Meyerson was just a placeholder after Cullen stepped down and Kirby was murdered."

"Yeah, did you ever hear who did that one?"

"People find it admirable, you arrested him anyways. Not your fault the good doctor implicated herself. I've been talking to a few older members, and they like what they see. Cullen's ready to fly up from Florida and testify on your behalf. It can happen: You're compassionate, charismatic, and _the best investigator in the agency_, in case you forgot that point. Hell, you even have a _law_ degree, Seeley, that you _do_ conveniently forget about most of the time."

He shrugged. Law school had been ages ago; he'd finished right around Parker's second birthday but never felt compelled to do anything with that piece of paper. His father was still furious. He doubted Bones even knew about it. "I never took the bar."

"Yeah, well, that was you being stupid."

"I once shot an ice-cream truck."

"What ex-Ranger hasn't caved to a little stress? We can get people to vouch that was an anomaly. That shrink, for instance. Same with that suspension," he added, before Booth could drop that in.

"My close rate — listen, I hate to shatter your bullshit illusions, but that's hardly my doing. It's half Brennan's. Mine wasn't nearly as high when I wasn't working with her."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, blame it all on the crazy-smart-_and_-hot scientist-author you have for a partner, even though you work tons of cases without her and your close rate is consistently above the 92nd percentile," Michael grinned and rolled his eyes. "Also, you still need to get Cass that autographed copy you promised."

"If you get off my back about this, I will get you that autographed copy," he swore.

Michael stared at him, thinking. "You _really_ don't want this promotion? It's fabulous. It'll one-up your bitch of a little brother." Michael had never liked Jared.

"It might sound weird to you, but yes, I like my job. I like what my job means and what I do there. Bones and I, we're a team. We do good stuff out there."

Michael let out a low whistle. "Seeley Booth, giving up a promotion for a girl?"

"_Partner_, Michael. We're partners." He used Bones' line. He certainly was _not_ going to try and defend the fact that he and Bones had been partners for four years, coincidentally around the time his last serious relationship ended, and that he'd only dated sporadically since. And he was fairly sure he could. After all, he'd been avoiding Sweets' unveiled insinuations for a year and a half now. "And I'm not turning it down because of our partnership, I'm telling you why you're nuts to suggest me. Don't forget the whole anger-management issues and the suspensions for going behind my superiors' backs. _And_ I'm going to point out that the only reason you're pushing this? Is because you don't want to be the most-junior member of the subcommittee."

But Michael still had that dubious, know-it-all smirk — Michael had been older than most of the other guys in the unit, and had always been a little condescending about it — and just shook his head. "So I take it you've finally settled down, then? Nice girl with fabulous legs that can tolerate cartoons instead of the news in the morning, wants to cook mac'n'cheese for Parker?" He looked at him shrewdly, and Booth cringed at Michael's choice of food to illustrate his point.

Booth sighed. "Honestly, Michael, I've been too busy."

"With your partner?"

"With work."

"With your _partner_?"

"Yes."

"How many hours — per week — do you spend with your partner, working or no?"

"Depends on the caseload," he lied. It really didn't, and he knew that, and he knew all of his reasons why that wasn't so. And he also knew that trying to explain Bones to someone who had never _met_ her would be about as successful as him handling the forensics and Bones handling the investigation.

"Let's average this," Michael suggested.

"Average? Must be 80 hours a week," he lowballed. "I know it sounds extreme, but this is Bones. You don't know her. It's a very all-encompassing partnership. We're friends, too. That happens."

"But you're not sleeping with her, dating with her, living with her," Michael said. "Because _I_ see Cass fewer than 80 hours a week, even when I'm home."

"How much time I spend with Brennan has nothing on whether or not I'm qualified for this job, or whether you're doing something stupid to both of our careers."

"This isn't about your idiotic reasons not to take the job, which, by the way, I will convince you to take," Michael said. "This is about me figuring out how long you've been in love with her and haven't told her. Jesus, Seel, I would have probably killed myself if I'd waited this long to make a move on Cass. This _cannot _be friggin' healthy."

He paused. This was Michael, after all, who had carried him when his feet were broken, whom he'd dragged across deserts. Not Sweets. Not Angela. And Michael was happily married and — Booth wasn't the type of guy to ask for girl advice, but Cass and Michael's courtship hadn't been like a picnic, either, and it wasn't like Michael and Bones would ever _actually _meet.

"Not sure," he finally said, shrugging. "But I _know_ Bones — know her better'n anybody. You can't push her. And damned if she's not the most complicated personality I've ever seen."

"What's she like?" Michael was half-amused, half incredibly, genuinely interested.

"Well — the easy part is she's gorgeous. Funny, but unintentionally. She cares, so much, but can't show it. And she's brilliant, obviously. The way she just thinks is just … amazing to watch. She just kind of throws herself into it and gets this _look_ on her face, like what she's doing is the only thing in the world. And she's got this _laugh_ and when she's looking at you, _really _looking at you and trusting you, she's just completely under your skin and you can't stop thinking about her. The difficult part is that she's stubborn as hell, terrified of dependency, and tries to quantify everything, emotion, faith, love, _everything_. And she'll always tell you she's OK. You have to read the nonverbals with her. It's about the fact that she lets you in, trusts you, is okay with you invading her personal space, even invades yours. She doesn't trust very easy — and then when you've earned it, you don't ever want to let her down." He thought about guy hugs, the way she grabs at the back of his shirt when she's scared and the way her hips feel when he's slid an arm around her to hurry her up. The way she takes just a small step toward him when she sees a challenge and the way her eyes spark when he's leaning just a little too close to her. These, all of these, are the ridiculous, small reasons that she's got him.

"Worth not dating for years?"

"Completely," he swallowed and shook his head. "But she's — not ready for what I want. A few weeks ago — she said she _wanted_ to believe in love. And _that_, that was a huge victory. Finally felt like she was maybe allowing herself to open up a little."

"And you've _never_ tried _anything_?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

"Either she's gotta go first, or she has to be ready," he said. "And she's not there yet." It wasn't entirely her fault, of course; he wasn't ready to admit anything for three years. Until she punched him, after he 'died.'

"And you're _sure_ that she'll get there, that these past four years are worth it?"

"At this point, Mike, I don't really have a choice."

Michael stared at him long and hard. "You old bastard, Seeley. Cassandra will positively _die_."

Booth smirked. "You know, I _am_ the basis for Andy Lister."

Michael shook his head. "Yeah, the guy Kathy Reichs's sleeping with?"

"It's subliminal," Booth grinned.

They got off that topic then, thank God, and got onto the regular ones, like hockey and Mikey's crap new apartment. As they were finishing, Michael back-slapped him. "Go after the girl, Seel," he advised. "And Meyerson will be stepping down at the beginning of the year. You've got eight, almost nine months. I still wanna push your name."

He shook his head, bounded out of the restaurant and toward his truck. It wasn't that the promotion wasn't tempting, because it definitely was. Longer hours, maybe, but more money for Parker. Besides, he'd been getting shot at for more than 15 years; a change wouldn't be a bad idea. But he liked the FBI. He'd worked hard the last several years at the Bureau and knew he didn't want to be one of those sad-sack, should-have-retired-long-ago, pudgy agents that still wandered the halls and worked on cases that their way-younger superiors gave them out of sympathy. That wasn't his way. Yeah, he wasn't much for paperwork and bureaucracy, but part of being on top was the ability to change that.

But there was Bones. Besides whatever he'd said to Mikey about the way he felt about her, his feelings weren't the point. A promotion would change too much for Bones. To her, it would be him leaving her like everyone else. And he'd promised her that he wouldn't do that, simple as that.

He couldn't take the position.


	2. Brennan

Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm glad you like my portrayal of Booth and hope you similarly like Brennan's. This is actually the end of the road for this one--it's simply meant to highlight their sacrifices, yada, yada--but I'm working on something longer and in the future that should hopefully work out. This is around "Cinderella," so it's kind of my take on which one is struggling with their feelings concerning the relationship. Let me know!

xoxo

* * *

It wasn't unusual for Brennan to have a meeting with the director of the Museum — contrary to what Angela thought and often implied, playing Hepburn to Booth's Tracy (whatever that meant) was hardly her only responsibility at the Jeffersonian, and Dr. Saroyan was hardly the only person to whom she reported — but it was a bit unusual for Dr. Walton to insist upon a private lunch in his office. She actually couldn't remember another instance when the kindly septuagenarian paleontologist had made the request, not even when he invited her to be the keynote speaker at the annual fundraising gala. Still, she recognized and respected the role of hierarchy within an organization, so she was outside of his oaken double doors at promptly 12.28 p.m.

"Temperance, how marvelous. Right on time, I see," he said, taking her right hand with both of his and shaking it warmly.

"Yes, of course," she said. "I greatly appreciate punctuality. How are you, sir?"

"Oh, marvelous, Temperance, just marvelous. Amelia and I recently returned from San Francisco, where we were visiting our daughter and grandson."

"They're well, I trust?" she had never gotten very close to Dr. Walton, who had replaced Dr. Goodman after Harvard had hired him away, but he did honestly seem like a nice person. He himself had originally been on faculty at the University of Chicago, an institution that she respected despite the fact that it was not Northwestern.

"Oh very well, very well," he pulled a photo off of his desk. "I don't believe you and Jennifer had the privilege of meeting when she came to the gala at the start of last season, did you?" He handed her the frame.

"No, I wasn't able to attend the gala for very long last year."

"Yes, I believe you and the FBI liaison were working on a case very late that night?"

"Yes, we had a case," she replied, handing the photo back to him. "Your daughter is lovely." She really was — clear, deep-set blue eyes, symmetrical features, straight teeth, long blonde hair. Classic markers of health, wealth, and success in modern Western society.

'Thank you," he said. "She works with Google." He pointed to the small, rolling bar by the table in his study. "Would you like anything to drink?"

They made small talk for a while, first over water and then over salad. They discussed the Institution's latest fundraising push despite the lagging economy; her research, which would soon take her to India; his son, who worked at an investment firm in Dubai; whether she would help identify remains in the wake of a recent earthquake in Pakistan (she thought she might swing by for a few days during her India trip, but she didn't want to spend more than three weeks away); the recent exhibits opened at the Museum, which included an exhibit on Northwestern Native American Culture, which she had contributed to as well. They also, of course, touched upon her work with Booth and her novels, both of which had brought her quite a bit of renown around the Jeffersonian. She even found herself open to discussing her father's operation of the co-curricular science activities. Dr. Walton was really an illuminating conversationalist, and it was actually quite a delightful lunch.

"You've a wonderful view," she commented as she looked out the window across the Mall, all the way to the Washington Monument. She realized how rarely she had simply … sat there, even when the office was Goodman's.

"Yes, I do," he said, placing a coffee and a piece of cheesecake in front of her. "And I'll miss it dearly."

"You're ... leaving, Dr. Walton?" He really had only been there for a short period of time.

"Oh, yes," he said. "It's simply time, Temperance, surely you understand."

She didn't, not really — she knew intellectually that one day she may leave the Jeffersonian, but she would prefer if it remained her home base. But she nodded. "Of course. You have grandchildren. I'm sure you're experiencing the urge to see them more often, as your life enters its late stages."

He didn't blink. "Precisely. Museum politics are not for the old or faint at heart," he said.

"How much longer are you remaining in the position?"

He paused. "I'd like to leave by the end of the year if possible. Amelia and I have plans to visit Ireland this December, and I would prefer to extend that vacation and treat it as a retirement celebration, of sorts."

She nodded. "That should give the Regents enough time to find a suitable replacement and ensure a smooth transition."

"Actually, Temperance, the Regents and I already have a candidate in mind."

He gave her a sly look that she couldn't quite read, and suddenly she felt like she was floundering in the conversation, a feeling she hadn't experienced in quite a while. "Oh really?" she asked. "That's wonderful."

"Aren't you the least bit _curious_ about who we might have lead the museum?"

She shrugged. "I'm sure that if you and the Regents have reached a reasonable consensus this individual is imminently qualified, and I have faith that he or she should work well with the staff."

"Yes, we think … this person is quite prodigious. Uniquely qualified inside and outside of her discipline. We're quite confident that we have made the proper choice."

She nodded, again confused. "I look forward to meeting her."

Finally, he gave up. Even she could understand that something was clearly exasperating him. "Temperance, the board of Regents would like _you_. I would like _you_."

"To be the director of the museum?" she asked, astonished. She looked at Dr. Walton, forty years her senior. "That's ludicrous. For one, I'm far too young."

"Your body of scholarship says otherwise. You're one of the busiest and most productive scientist-scholars in the country, in addition to your crimefighting and novel writing."

"I'm a physical and forensic anthropologist," she said. "An ideal candidate would have a much more administrative background, not to mention curatorial experience. My research and work is hardly related to the public face of the museum, as well as completely unrelated to its philanthropic and educational mission."

"You're one of our most popular instructors; you're also a huge draw as a fundraiser, _and_ you approach fundraising with a positive attitude." He sounded like that was a big deal.

"My field is _extremely_ specific; I lack a well-rounded background in other fields, including paleontology, archaeology, geology, and even cultural anthropology."

"You know that any university in the country would hand you a Master's and likely even a Ph.D. in any of those fields; your knowledge through your own inquiry and research easily makes you the most fiercely well-informed scholar on staff."

"That still doesn't negate my lack of curatorial experience. The museum needs someone more well-versed in curating."

"We have curators to handle that part. You've always, in every speech you've given at the Jeffersonian, mentioned that undiluted academia and scientific inquiry are your joint first loves, how they need to be better protected and funded."

"Yes," she responded, confused at his tangent.

"Well, you're very involved in the day-to-day. This gives you a chance to step back. You just mentioned that it was unlikely for you to spend more than three weeks in India, possibly denying yourself a chance to help recover and identify earthquake victims, because of your ever-increasing commitment to the FBI. While you are in a sense tied because of meetings, you're much freer to set your agenda and schedule, and you could perform more scholarship independently. And we have every confidence that you'll be able to set a holistic vision for the museum. Honestly, Temperance, please do not let insecurities get in the way of such a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Before she could tell him that insecurities were not something she possessed, something he had said to her had not even occurred to her previously. "I wouldn't be able to continue to work with Agent Booth?"

"Well, he is the liaison to the Medico-Legal Lab, specifically," he said, puzzled and almost agitated at her responses. "He would work primarily with them, of course. While your schedule allows for some flexibility and your responsibilities for some freedoms, it is, generally, very unheard of for someone to continue to perform all the duties of her old job _and_ her new one."

"Sir, you're … very much mistaken if you believe I feel that my duties to the FBI, as a researcher in the Medico-Legal Lab, are intrusive upon my scholarship. I actually do enjoy my time with the FBI quite a bit. It's very enjoyable."

"You would really let that one aspect of your job lead you to turn down an excellent offer? I really must stress how _eager_ the Regents and the Secretary are about you taking on this role, Dr. Brennan. They want nobody else."

"Dr. Walton, I'm sorry, but I had not anticipated this turn of events. Is this even a formal offer? An interview?"

"Well," he suddenly looked almost shrunken in his suit. "Well, the Regents and the Secretary would, of course, conduct an interview, but we anticipated that it would only be a formality. Should you not accept, we would likely turn to an interim leader and search nationwide. This … this is much easier for all involved."

"Well, I greatly appreciate the honor of the request," she said, standing. "Still, I really must discuss this with my partner."

"Your partner?" he asked, confused. He rubbed his temple, but absentmindedly, as if he did not recognize what he was doing.

"Yes. Agent Booth?" They had _just_ been discussing him.

"Oh," he said, in a voice filled with innuendo. "I didn't realize … that a private relationship would weigh so heavily upon this decision. I'm sure that he'll support this career advancement, though, Dr. Brennan. Surely he is not a Neanderthal who would begrudge you this opportunity."

That was the thing, a little bit, that annoyed her. Booth would tell her to take it. He had told her to go with Sully into the sunset and he would repeat his urgings here. "No. Booth is slightly overprotective and has strong alpha-male reactions but one could not categorize him as a Neanderthal, no."

"Oh," Dr. Walton smiled, visibly relieved. "Well, then, I'm sure it's not a problem with him. Just … think it over, clear your head, and drop by sometime in the next few days." His smile turned into a grin. "I'm confident you'll make the proper decision."  
"Thank you sir," she said, shaking his hand. "Congratulations on your retirement." He beamed.

She considered walking down 10th to the Hoover Building to talk to Booth, but quickly rejected that idea. He had a lunch meeting of his own, with a former Army Rangers colleague, anyways. She considered going back to her office, but the lab was quite full and Dr. Saroyan would likely put her to work. She considered sneaking out with Angela for tea, but Angela would start to discuss _subtext_ again, and frankly, that was a discussion that always left Brennan confused. Instead she sought the exit, walked along Constitution and crossed 9th, down to the Navy Memorial. There was a Starbucks there, and she ordered a gigantic latte.

She felt indecisive, and that in itself felt ridiculous. Logically she knew that this was a huge honor, and — even more logically — one that she had, without a doubt, earned. She _was_ a preeminent scholar; her knowledge of other fields regularly surpassed its specialists. She had also brought a bit of fame to the Jeffersonian via her writing; on top of that, she was a polite and willing attendee at fundraisers. This would allow her to travel more. Write more. Beyond the fact that she would look desperate, which would impede salary negotiations, she had been ridiculously stupid to decline to accept Walton's offer then and there.

She knew that she had been spending fewer days traveling as of late; in fact, the past year, really. Instead, she spent her weekends in D.C. and she did, she knew, spend more time working with Booth, consulting on cases that three years ago she would have deemed as unworthy of her time. But she still managed at least two trips overseas, albeit shorter ones (five years ago, she was gone about five months out of the year; now, it was closer to two), and performed more osteological consultations. She taught a second class, now, as well. But much of it was because of what she and Booth did. It was important, it solved things, it brought closure to people whom she _knew_ desperately needed it. Including her own family. And after five years of calling D.C. home, she was putting down the proverbial roots. Really, that part was inevitable. And much of it, further still, was Booth.

She had to acknowledge that her relationship with Booth likely was playing a factor in her fear. She was not _blind_, as a scientist, she was supremely gifted at culling all the evidence necessary. She knew that in the last few years, she had come to rely on Booth heavily, both professionally and personally. She knew she was closer to him than anybody else. She knew exactly what Angela's comments insinuated, and even what Sweets insinuated sometimes (the pie metaphor was a little suspect, however), and she could understand why — due to the extreme amount of time they spent together, the deep level of trust they required of each other, their mutual lack of a social life at this point — they would jump to their erroneous conclusions.

To believe that she and Booth were or could be something different from good friends was to ignore base truths about the both of them, including their professionalism, her need for proof and his need for faith, their individual goals, and how they approached sex and emotions and relationships. Broaching the topic of sex alone made Booth uncomfortable, suggesting something like a mutually satisfying sexual relationship coupled with their friendship would nearly kill him. While he was not a Neanderthal, he certainly had his — what was Sweets' juvenile and imprecise term? — hang-ups.

But not getting to work with Booth every day would be extremely difficult for her, and likely, she suspected for him. She would miss his attitude, his ability to read people, his dependability and even his over-protectiveness. He inspired a unique sort of bravery and strength in her, and she would have to say that he did make her a better person.

He wouldn't like working with Clark Edison or whoever her replacement would be; he would lose much of the enthusiasm and purpose he derived from his job would be greatly diminished. Starting over with a new partner, losing that level of trust and confidence he had in their partnership, would be difficult for him, would even be troublesome for his career at this point in his path. And he, for some reason, personally _needed_ to protect _her_, something he could not do if she was safely ensconced in the museum's third floor. But he would encourage her to take it, would tell her how great she would be, would say that nothing would change. He would tell her that their friendship would not change. And that she did not believe. And she had no desire to change the nature of their relationship intentionally. Entropy dictated that yes, someday, it would change, and that they would no longer work together. But she would not be the entropic force. Which meant she couldn't even discuss the possibility with him.

She stood, discarding the mostly-full latte in the garbage bin, and squinted up at the Hoover Building, before realizing Booth's office was on the other side. That decision had been easier than she had anticipated, she thought as she crossed Pennsylvania. The decision was almost easy.

She could not accept this offer.


End file.
